


Butterfly Effect

by somepeoplearewild



Category: Little Mix (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Corpse Desecration, Death, Delusions, F/M, M/M, Murder, Narcissism, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Twisted love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-12-26
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somepeoplearewild/pseuds/somepeoplearewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Butterfly Effect {(n.)}<br/>{the phenomenon by which a minute alteration within a complex system provokes an extensive impact elsewhere}</p><p>(There's a serial killer on the loose.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Please excuse my weird tense changes. His character traits are described in present tense because he's still like that, but most of the fic is written in past tense because it's supposed to sound like a person listening in on his thoughts as he tells his story and reminisces his kills.
> 
> Just wanted to clear that up before my grammar skills were discredited.
> 
> Also, this is a fic about a SERIAL KILLER so there will be SERIAL KILLING which means VIOLENCE, DEATH, and DISTURBING CONTENT.
> 
> I'm probably not that great of a writer for it to actually affect you, so you should be good anyway.

 

The butterfly effect is the phenomenon by which a minute alteration within a complex system provokes an extensive impact elsewhere, and what is a better example of a 'minute alteration' than just one person of the seven billion on Earth being born with such greatness? He likes to think of the past and present existence of humans as a string of Christmas lights. (He detests everything winter and most things human.) When someone is born into the world, a bulb is strung in that person's honour and shines for him until the day he dies, unless of course his legacy outlasts his breath, in which case the light continues to shine until he is forgotten. That's not to say that people can simply be categorised as light or dark. That would be disgustingly narrow-minded and, to be appreciated, he knows his entire existence requires an open mind. So he believes that the lights come in colours.

White for the innocent.

Purple for the brave.

Green for the selfish.

Blue for the loyal.

Yellow for the loving.

Red for the passionate.

And orange for the original.

Zayn Malik is orange.


	2. Pieris Rapae

Zayn doesn't suppose that there's any childhood trauma directly linked to his 'condition' as the psychologists like to suggest that there is. He was just _born different_ , and they should start listing that on his records instead of _disempathetic type sociopath_.

 

From day one it was apparent that he was special. His infant self shone with a beauty before unbeknownst to the hands which delivered him. His cries were soft and mesmerising like the sound of wind hiccoughing against a summer rain.

 

He was born in the winter. Perhaps as a pill of hope to cure the depression of the desolate season. It was no wonder there were so many holidays celebrated in the winter— the people had to have something to look forward to. His birthday was meant to be another.

 

His mother knew this, took his potential into consideration when she named him. His name was enough evidence of his true self. _Zain_ , beauty. _Malik_ , ruler. (He later changed the 'i' to 'y' in Zayn because once again he is the original.) Beauty because he is beautiful. And ruler because he is the king.  He is the Monarch, and his court is his canvas.

 

Artistically, Zayn is blessed. He is exemplary in every aspect of life, but he succumbed to art's call early on in life. His block castles were always taller, his drawings more elaborate than the crooked stick people of his toddler peers. Despite his obvious show of excellency, his father and uncles became concerned as Zayn stopped bringing home cartoons of robots, and the population of butterflies increased on the refrigerator where young Zayn posted his favourite creations.

 

Zayn's infatuation with butterflies is justified in his opinion because there is something devastatingly romantic about the idea of an ugly, shamed creature transforming into a celebrated icon of beauty. Zayn's ideas have always been caterpillars. He was hoping that sharing them with the world would change that.

 

It didn't.

 

He was kicked out of three primary schools and a summer camp before it was decided that he start keeping his mouth shut and his thoughts to himself. His mother threatened him with child services and bootcamp and even admitting him to a mental hospital, but none of that could stop the ideas sprouting and growing in his adolescent mind, curling around the corners of his conscience and suffocating whatever doubts he had that what he envisioned could ever be _wrong_.

 

But Zayn shut up anyway. He locked himself away from those who feared him, and he liked it better that way, protected in his cocoon of solitude where he underwent a metamorphosis, evolving from an artist to a performer. He used his giant, beautiful, black and orange and white wings for the first time the summer after his college graduation.

 

Zayn was in Ireland. He remembers very little about the cities he visited after his second week in the country because on Tuesday he caught a glimpse and by Wednesday he had tunnel vision.

 

There was a boy at the park when Zayn arrived to watch for butterflies. He was in a tree, giggling to himself like a school girl while swinging his skinny legs back and forth on either side of the branch he straddled. His hair was an auburn blonde, his skin whiter than the powdered sugar on Zayn's lemon bars. (He likes to try new foods when he goes watching.)

 

Zayn sat at the wooden table facing the most promising patch of grass and flowers and stared intently at it. He was determined not to look at the boy again. He was there to enjoy his snack and hope for a butterfly to flit by— not to watch underaged boys like a creep. Zayn is very open-minded, but his brain goes on lockdown when it comes to paedophilia.

 

"What are you doing?" a voice breathed into Zayn's ear suddenly, startling him out of his pensiveness.

 

Zayn's second reaction was a hand flying up to rub the feeling of warm condensation out of his ear because one, it was fucking gross and two, it was fucking gross. Did he need another reason?

 

The porcelain-skinned boy didn't notice the discomfort in Zayn's rigid posture but continued to breathe heavily beside him. "Are you gonna eat that?" he asked next, seeming to have forgotten his first question entirely once he spotted the tangy treat resting before Zayn on the table.

 

"Who are you?" Zayn asked, mentally slapping himself because he wasn't supposed to get involved with the little baby-faced son of a bitch.

 

"I'm Niall. Can I have it?" he asked, clear blue eyes glancing up at Zayn, who could've sworn he wasn't that close to his snack two seconds ago. The boy's face was practically hovering over it by then. "What is it?"

 

"Lemon bar," Zayn replied tentatively, taken by the guileless look in Niall's eyes.

 

"Can I?"

 

Zayn gestured silently at one of the three yellow squares laid out, flinching when the boy released a shrill ' _yippee!_ ' as he picked up a sweet and jammed half of it into his mouth on the first bite.

 

"Mmmm, mate, you've gotta try this," he hummed through a mouthful of food, eyes closed in pleasure. One popped open and eyed Zayn. "Who are you, again?"

 

"Zayn."

 

"Are you from England, Zayn?"

 

"No. I'm from a small colony in America that speaks British English."

 

"That's so cool!"

 

"That was sarcasm."

 

Instead of the usual look of offence, Niall guffawed and slapped Zayn on the back. "You're one o them smart types, eh?"

 

"You could say that," Zayn answered, picking a piece off of the lemon bar. It tasted like heaven, looked like sunshine, and Niall's skin was as white as the clouds overhead.

 

After Niall finished smacking down the desert, he began walking backwards away from Zayn. "I've gotta run, like literally. Me mum's gonna be so angry I stayed so long, but I'll be here tomorrow so cool if you stop by, cool if you don't. See ya!" Niall straightened out his white, button-down shirt and grabbed a backpack from behind the tree before running off with a wave.

 

Zayn was left in a daze from their encounter. He finished his snack, wandered back to his hotel, and lied there on the brick-like mattress, staring up at the yellowing ceiling while thinking about that boy, so naïve and fresh-faced.

 

Zayn wanted to make Niall's body a work of art.

 

He decided he would.

 

•-•-•-•

 

The next day, Zayn returned to the spot with a paper bag of muffins and a duffle bag of something else. He waited by the tree, sketching a small, white butterfly over and over until a familiar figure rounded the mass of bushes that secluded the area. He quickly emptied the bottle of liquid into the bag and pushed it away from him as Niall bounded across the park to where he was sat.

 

"You came!"

 

"At this point, I was beginning to wonder if _you_  were gonna show up."

 

"Sorry," Niall smiled sheepishly. "I have summer school. Failed English. Imagine that. What's in the bag?"

 

"Fresh muffins."

 

Niall flashed a crooked grin, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Can I have one?"

 

Zayn nodded and handed the bag to Niall, unable to suppress his smirk as the boy opened the bag and took a huge whiff of the muffins' aroma.

 

There was only a slight thump when his body hit the ground, the grass cushioning the sound.

 

Zayn crawled over to the boy and tossed the sack away. He took a moment to memorise the soft, white skin before pulling up his other bag and rummaging through it for the pair of blue latex gloves he'd acquired. With them on, the zip ties were a little difficult to secure around Niall's wrists and ankles, but Zayn figured he would improve with practise. The hard part was positioning the needle in the right place. Zayn had no medical experience, so he was only going off of anatomical charts from the Internet when he pushed the needle into what he hoped was the boy's kidney. He emptied three more syringes into Niall: one on his other kidney, one near his liver, and another he simply squirted down the boy's throat. Just to be sure. Zayn wasn't familiar with arsenic either.

 

When Niall didn't wake up at the pokes, Zayn was pleased. It meant he could take the duct tape off and begin work before the vomiting occurred. After removing the duct tape and smearing a bit of topical anaesthetic onto the skin inside and outside of his mouth, Zayn took another needle, this one a different kind, and threaded it with thick, dark brown string. He lined the pin-point edge of the long needle with the peacefully downturned corner of the thin pink lip and pierced in. Blood began seeping out of the wound, but Zayn ignored it. He had to take care of Niall's mouth quickly lest the boy wake up and start screaming. He had sewn his all the way across the lips once and was halfway through looping back to fill the spaces when Niall's brown eyelashes began fluttering. Zayn cursed quietly and admonished himself for the distance between him and the sack of chloroform. He risked a look at Niall's face where his eyelids were still drooped dopily. He'd be fully conscious in a matter of minutes and he would be shouting and yelling and grabbing attention that Zayn really didn't need at the moment, so with one last glance at the edge of the bushes, Zayn growled "fuck it" and pushed the needle back into the skin, resuming his work at a swifter pace than before. Just as Zayn was making the last stitch, two blue eyes widened in fear, and Niall began shouting to the best of his ability what with his lips sewn shut. It was really more of a distraught hum, so Zayn was able to crawl back to the white sack on the ground and retrieve it to press the opening over the boy's mouth and nose again until he shushed once more. Zayn applied a clear sealant to them to prevent any messes from being made in the process of his body dying, and sealed his eyelids together as well.

 

Then Zayn began the process of undressing him, laying his body out like a clean, white canvas. He had to cut through Niall's clothes to remove them, but he didn't care. Niall wouldn't be needing them again anytime soon. Next, came the white adhesive linen, which Zayn wrapped around his body from the suprapubic area down to his feet. He needed to even out his work area. He forged a harness out of two white straps and rolled them up for the moment.

 

Then, he smiled because this was the fun part. The mask went over his nose and a new pair of gloves were tugged on. He pulled out a pack of paint brushes and ten cans of spray paint and a few bottles of tempera paint in five colours: grey, brown, dark brown, black, and white.

 

Zayn's first excited stroke sprayed straight down the snowy expanse of his chest, striking and taupe. He covered the hair, face, neck, and entire front of Niall's torso with the colour, flipping the boy over after a few drying minutes to spray the back of his legs up to the curve of Niall's ass. He switched to his paintbrush then to draw the thinning stripe up his back which would also serve as a guide to the next step of sewing two flaps of white linen on either side of the painted line. He used a thinner, white thread and did it quickly, repainting the edges of the dark line.

 

Zayn turned Niall onto his back once more and sprayed his arms white. He criss-crossed them on the boy's chest like an Egyptian pharaoh in his sarcophagus, and wrapped the white linen over them until the edges rounded his sides. He glued the edges down and set to painting Niall's wrists and fingertips to match the colour of his chest. With a few final sprays of the coffee colour in a simple pattern of spots on the fabric, and a bit of detail painting using the grey paint, Niall was ready to move on from hair and makeup to wardrobe then, finally, onto the stage.

 

Starting from the bottom of his neck along the spinal cord, Zayn wrapped Niall tightly in cellophane like how a mother would swaddle a baby to insulate it from the harsh air of winter. He 

untied the straps and took a moment to consider how he should go about what he wanted to do. He'd been so swept up by the medical and creative prospects that he hadn't thought much on the mechanical level. He wouldn't make this mistake again. Next time, he'd be fully prepared.

 

He grimaced as he realised what he would have to do and snapped off his gloves. After unsteadily climbing the tree with the straps in hand, Zayn scooted out onto the thick branch— the very one that Niall had been happily perched on the day before. He dropped a strap on either side of the branch in the bend where it met the trunk and cursed the universe as he dangled his body over the edge and dropped to the ground. He ran the laces around to the opposite side of the tree and tied a lose knot. Grasping the straps tightly, Zayn had to use his entire body weight to hoist the bundle of Niall off of the grass. The knot tightened up to the bark, enabling Zayn to run around the tree a few times until the straps ran out of length and he could secure them with one last knot.

 

With a wipe of the brow, Zayn admired his work, his art. Hanging from the tree, wrapped like a butterfly just before it emerges, Niall was a perfect specimen. Of course Niall was bound to die in a few hours, but look at him now. So beautiful, his wings a purer white than his skin.

 

Zayn changed shirts and packed up, glancing one last time at _Pieris Rapae_  before he left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was it?


	3. Lycaena Hippothoe

Zayn chuckled over his cup of coffee when he returned home three days later. A grainy school photo of Niall was plastered on the front page of the newspaper. The reporters on television called it fancy words like 'macabre' and 'grotesque', and Niall's mum cried for the cameras.  
  
"What is _wrong_ with people these days?" Zayn's older sister, Doniya, muttered in disgust.  
  
Zayn rolled his eyes at her. She was one of the close-minded. "It's meant to be artistic." He said this just as a banner appeared at the bottom of the screen reading 'Tragedy in Ireland'.  
  
His sister slowly turned to Zayn, alarm clear in her features. "Oh my god, it was you."  
  
"No, it wasn't."  
  
"Uh, yeah it was. Butterflies, demented artistic shit— that's totally you! And- and you were in Ireland when it happened!"  
  
"If you'd have listened, you would've heard them say it was in Mullingar. I was in Belfast then in Dublin," Zayn lied smoothly. "So you should probably shut up now."  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
"Your friends all try to."  
  
"At least I have friends," Doniya snapped, instantly looking regretful after the words had come out. "I... I didn't mean it like that, Zayn. I'm sorry."  
  
Zayn just shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. "I need allies. Not friends."  
  
A month later, he got both.  
  
She was bubbly and kind and everything that Zayn was not, including brave. While he preferred lying as a means of protection, she fully embraced the truth. Zayn was careful and calculated, and she was rash and reckless. But none of that could disrupt the obvious connection between them as the twisted wires of their brains unfurled and reached out toward each other, the copper ends winding at the tips to generate a current which could not be slowed. And boy did the sparks fly.  
  
They were constantly grating against each other like metal against metal, lighting up the room and wearing each other down until they could not hide the truth even if they wanted to.  
  
Zayn remembers hating her as much as he enjoyed her presence. Her apricot skin nauseatingly smelled like pears. Her soft lips always had too much gloss, and her thick eyelashes put his own to shame. The only things that Zayn truly appreciated about her physically were her cold, grey eyes and lavender hair.  
  
"That's a pretty fuckin awesome painting, you got there," someone declared loudly, shattering the peaceful atmosphere in the empty art building.  
  
Zayn startled and swiped pink up his arm, turning slowly to glare at the intruder.  
  
It was a girl in a flower crown, wearing too much floral pattern to be anything other than 1980s upholstery. Zayn instantly hated her. Then, he didn't.  
  
He glanced at the painting then at her face again, lifting a finger to point at the artwork behind him. "That painting?" he asked skeptically.  
  
"Yeah," she grinned, taking his question as an invitation to move farther into the room. "It's beautiful. Morbid maybe, but beautiful nonetheless. I love it."  
  
She examined the faceless corpse as the body hung in the centre of the canvas, head bowed lifelessly. Its mouth was stitched shut and its body was bound and painted a wonderful pink and black pattern. "This looks like that thing on the news a while back about that kid in Ireland. I wish they'd shown photos or something. I need visuals to understand anything. Am I right, though? Is it based off that murder?"  
  
"Kind of. Yeah," Zayn shrugged.  
  
"The pink is pretty. I like it," the girl sighed. "I love things like this with symbolism and truth that people don't want to hear. It's always best to face up to the facts if you ask me."  
  
"Except when you use one truth to conceal another."  
  
The girl flashed him a grin with that look in her eyes that Zayn usually hates to see. He doesn't like rejecting people, but maybe he didn't want to reject this one. Maybe he wanted to know her name. "What's your name?"  
  
"Perrie Edwards, freshman, business management. And you are?" Zayn could see that major working for her, could see her delivering orders from the head of a conference table, putting that assertiveness to good use.  
  
"Zayn."  
  
Perrie gave him an expectant look.  
  
"Malik," Zayn added, unsure of why Perrie wanted to know so much. It wasn't like he ever wanted to see her again. Except maybe he did.  
  
"Well, if we're going to be friends, Zayn Malik, I need to know how you got away with it."  
  
And thus began a friendship marked by incongruity and tragedy.  
  
•-•-•-•  
  
"It's horrible isn't it?"  
  
Zayn didn't pause from his reading, just said "what", and let Perrie continue on her dolefully one-sided conversation. She'd been people watching and gossiping for the last half hour they'd been sitting at a picnic table in the park.  
  
"Louis Tomlinson. Like just him in general."  
  
"Mhm." Zayn turned the page.  
  
"Don't tell anyone I told you, but his girlfriend, Eleanor, is thinking about breaking up with him."  
  
"Really."  
  
"Yeah," Perrie responded giddily before schooling her features so she wouldn't look like she was enjoying how terrible other people's lives were. She scooted closer to Zayn, gaudy bracelets tinkling together as she leaned in to divulge more gossip. "She says it's because he gets too jealous and doesn't want her to hang out with anyone else."  
  
The last bit piqued Zayn's interest. He's always in the mood to play devil's advocate. "Maybe he's trying to protect her. No friends, no drama."  
  
"He is literally a drama major. And my sources tell me that Louis is thinking of proposing to her, which he's only doing to isolate her even more."  
  
"You don't know that for sure," Zayn commented, closing his book and stacking it on top of his bag.  
  
Perrie rolled her eyes then pointed across the park. "Look at them."  
  
Zayn's eyes followed the direction of her purple-painted fingernail until they landed on a girl and a guy standing underneath a tree.  
  
The girl was nothing remarkable— not to Zayn at least. She was pretty and looked exactly like the leggings-as-pants kind of girl that he tried to avoid on a day-to-day basis.  
  
It was the boy who caught his eye. His build held an almost girlish fragility to it, yet he held himself as if he was an indestructible wall between the girl and the rest of the world. His chestnut hair rustled gently in the breeze like the canopy of green leaves above him. All of his facial features were sharp as knives: the petite nose, the slender lips, catlike eyes, and prominent cheekbones.  
  
Zayn felt his own eyes zero in on Louis. Enraptured, Zayn didn't register Perrie's squealing as the boy knelt onto one knee and the girl started crying.  
  
Wretched, horrified tears. The kind of tears that accompany a doctor's condolences. The hand over the mouth that says 'this can't be happening to me'. A quiet answer, then a shouted "I LOVE YOU!"  
  
Zayn watched Eleanor tear her wrist back from Louis' desperate grasp and scurry away, leaving the boy to punch the tree then collapse against it. "Is that why you brought me here?"  
  
"Is what why I brought you here?" Perrie asked, feigning innocence.  
  
Zayn narrowed his eyes at her in annoyance. He hates when people play dumb.  
  
"Stop giving me that look."  
  
"You're terrible," Zayn smirked, pleased he had mastered nonverbal communication to the point that even Perrie Edwards couldn't misinterpret his expression. It was true after all. Only a terrible person would make plans to spectate a marriage proposal being rejected.  
  
"You're a dick."  
  
"And you're a vagina. Very astute observation, Miss Edwards."  
  
"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."  
  
"No, using that quote as a response to sarcasm is the lowest form of wit."  
  
"Touché."  
  
•-•-•-•  
  
"Wake up, you sleepy git!"  
  
Zayn startled as his safety belt snapped against the car's door suddenly.  
  
Perrie winced then grinned at her grumpy friend sheepishly. "Sorry... kind of... not really."  
  
"I hate you."  
  
"You're not the first," she shrugged, getting out of Zayn's silver, little 2003 Corolla. It wasn't the Jeep he had desired, but it served the general purpose of owning a car. "Why're you so tired anyway?"  
  
"Didn't sleep much last night..." Zayn replied, following Perrie into Café Cafe. The scent of coffee grounds hit hard. It was so strong he could no longer smell Perrie's perfumes.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"I was busy," Zayn answered vaguely, unsure of whether he wanted Perrie to pry or not.  
  
"Busy doing what?" Perrie drawled out her 'what' just long enough that it irked Zayn who opted to not answer her question and instead help turn her attention to the annoyed barista who'd been trying to get her attention while she was holding up the line. Perrie didn't even blush, taking her time to peruse the overhead menu before placing her order.  
  
"I don't care what it tastes like, just pack as much caffeine as you can into a cup and give it to me," Zayn said bluntly when it was his turn.  
  
The guy glanced at Perrie then gave Zayn a look of understanding. True, it took a lot to keep up with Perrie on a daily basis, but that was just it. He didn't. Every few weeks, Zayn had to take breaks from her for his mental health. During that time, he usually receded into his own quiet world of painting and sleeping and one-off jobs. She just exhausted him in a way that reminded him why he didn't make friends. Not to mention that everyone's drama was also her drama, and he didn't have the time for their shit on top of his shit.  
  
Perrie shot Zayn a fierce look when they were finally seated at the tiny table. "Are you about to abandon me again?"  
  
"It's not abandoning if I come back."  
  
"I just think it's weird that you only want to be my friend every other month."  
  
Zayn fought back the urge to roll his eyes and leave her stranded in the coffee shop. "I think it's incredible. Best relationship I've ever had with a non-relative."  
  
Perrie scoffed and sipped her cup of seasonal flavoured syrup. "That's sad then."  
  
"What's sad about no drama?" he asked, raising his eyebrow, unaware of the torment he'd just unleashed upon himself.  
  
"Oh, so you think I'm drama?"  
  
Zayn began to sigh, "Perrie–"  
  
"Don't 'Perrie' me! You hate me, don't you?!"  
  
"I hate everybody. I just hate you less."  
  
"Oh, cut the hipster cynic bullshit. You just can't stand to be around me, can you? You think that just because..."  
  
Now Zayn is usually a pretty level-headed guy, but the age old saying was definitely holding up in modern times. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. So as of right then, he had two options to diffuse the situation: (1) kill her or (2) kiss her, and since it was a crowded place...  
  
Perrie sighed and melted into Zayn's lips, and Zayn had to admit: it wasn't that bad. He'd known Perrie was into him for a while, but he didn't know just how much before she gripped the shoulders of his shirt and pulled him in tight.  
  
Zayn pulled away because PDA is disgusting, and he's classier than giving everyone a free show. He wiped at his mouth where it was probably stained purple from her lipstick.  
  
"Wow," Perrie whispered, eyes still closed, fingers still loosely twisted in the obsidian material of Zayn's shirt.  
  
Zayn remained quiet because he really didn't want to do anything to cause his effort to be futile.  
  
"I've waited so long for that."  
  
Zayn's insides tightened up as Perrie slowly opened her eyes, lashes fanning out dreamily. He hadn't realised the true consequences of kissing her. He couldn't just take it back now. Maybe... maybe he'd give it a few weeks or whatever. No time lost on Zayn's part. It's not like he's some love-obsessed fool whose only purpose in life is to find a mate. It wouldn't hurt if Perrie took up that part of his life for a bit.  
  
Perhaps he could get out of this eventually. Three weeks sounds about right. Wait until the weekend. He'd take her somewhere nice and say goodbye to her. Surprise her with a trip to Birmingham 'just to get away'. And end it with a swift jab of a needle. Then hang her up in a tree on the outskirts in the early hours when no one would see. He'd report her missing, while thinking to himself how beautiful she looked painted burnt orange and outlined in glittering byzantium as she dangled from the branch. Just ready to emerge from her cocoon a free spirit.  
  
She was original. She was courageous. _Lycaena Hippothoe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. College is cray. Anyway, tell me what you think.
> 
> p.s. i promise i'm working on Fallout. I just lost my notes (idefk where they are) and then i planned out an epilogue so a 2shot turned into a 4shot.
> 
> kbye ♥

**Author's Note:**

> So... does anyone actually want me to continue?


End file.
